


Godless

by threewalls



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 687 OV, Blasphemy, Cold, Community: ij porn_battle, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Snow and Ice, Spiritual Instruction, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-19
Updated: 2008-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Vossler has snow melting down his collar, but his face, his hands are hot; Basch's hair is so thick.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Godless

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: Vossler/Basch, unexpected chill
> 
> NB. 687 OV: Vossler = 19, Basch = 17

Vossler has snow melting down his collar, but his face, his hands are hot; Basch's hair is so thick.

Between the gate crystal and the Gran Kiltias' seal on the Stilshrine itself, the Great Walk is safe, safe enough to strip swords, and strip gloves, and knock and slide into smooth masonry, the plates of their armour pressing into their own skin. Vossler has Basch against the wall, all wandering hands and open mouth, hot thigh wedged between Vossler's own. The paling preserves the weather, draws away the wind and snow. Beating over Vossler's back is nothing but bleak sunshine and the seven thousand eyes of statues carved here in Kerwon before Ordalia knew her Gods. Miriam was a god of martial might, whose Law no one living now recalls, but Vossler knows the Law of the Light. If anyone else, kiltias or refugee, falls into the blizzard that chased them through the Silverflow's end, there is nowhere else they could go, nothing they wouldn't see. Basch's hands rove higher over Vossler's waist. Vossler gasps when chill finger worm under his jacket.

"Yours are ice just the same." Basch's grin is wide, his face bracketed between Vossler's hands. The cold does not trouble him as it does Vossler. He says it reminds him of home.

Vossler came to the holy mountain a pilgrim-soldier in his eighteenth year, to prove whether he is called to the sword or his father's mercantile concern. Basch came to find his brother, lost in the chaos of war. Vossler has wondered if whom Basch seeks is a 'brother' by blood, or whichever close comrade taught him to be so free with another man. Basch is many curious things, a blond Landian, a refugee who has re-taken up the sword, a man with no gods. Perhaps it is that that makes him shameless. This would not be so easy in Rabanastre.

Vossler noses, licks, nibbles Basch's ear, soothing the cold of his fingers with his mouth. Basch's fingers have warmed along Vossler's sides, travelled south over the rise of his trousers.

"Ivaness read my aura this morning. He said I have fire." Basch tilts his head; Vossler's teeth graze the tendons of his neck. "But mostly dark."

Basch's hands have stopped, have no pressure. He's looking away. "Will they ask me to leave?"

"It's not--" Vossler's blade has never failed during his tenure as kiltias, but he is a poor teacher, even without his cock throbbing and stealing his words. "Dark's not evil. It's-- balance is what's important. Too much of any element drives a man mad."

Vossler explains that he has always read strongest in earth, but he has some light. There are meditations to help with balance, of course, but--

"Do you want to get some Light into you?"

It's Anak's worst pick-up line, the worst piece of advice ever given from elder to younger brother, and one that has never caught Vossler friendly female attention. But, he forgets that Basch doesn't need an excuse to suck cock, that Vossler's not the only one who likes Basch down on his knees.

Vossler buckles, his knees locking. "Balance," he groans, praying for the strength to pull back, to loosen his instinctive grip in Basch's thick hair. "We should--"

Basch releases him, and then they're both sitting facing on the floor, legs outstretched in opposite directions. Basch's lips are wet and dark.

"Oh, you need some darkness of your own?"

It's easier for Vossler not to look, not to speak, but to reach for the ties of Basch's trousers, curl onto his side and bend.

In the beginning, all things were made in reflection, light and dark, Faram and Maraf, male and female. This is blasphemy. This is perversion. Vossler smells musk, tastes salt and bitterness, _feels_ Basch swallow. He wants nothing but this.


End file.
